


Patchwork Stars in a Lilac Sky

by amongst_the_hellfire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abused!Cas, Bullying, I don't know how else to tag this, M/M, OOC!Anna, Sad sad sad, Suicidal!Cas - Freeform, abused!Dean, eh, just two dorks in love, not plagiarism because this is not for a grade or anything, really short, this was basically for NaNoWriMo and I just changed the names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-27 23:11:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6303859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amongst_the_hellfire/pseuds/amongst_the_hellfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of stars, lilacs, and the number eight.</p><p>Love should be simple, shouldn't it? Love should be the feeling of a cool hand in yours as you walk down the hot summer pavement of your new street. Lve should be the warmth of arms around your shoulders in the coldest of times. It should be happiness and wonder, learning and teaching, taking and giving in a dynamic equilibrium of two souls.</p><p>But it shouldn't be this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Dean Aidan Winchester, for the last time, go across the street and bring these to the new neighbors!"

An unruly tuft of sandy brown hair followed by a mischievous grin peered around the corner. "Mooom, do I have to?" He sheepishly grinned as the disapproving glare of his mother loomed over him. Mary Winchester was not a weak woman, and her ominous glare could flatten a forest where she stood. She was definitely strong, the blood flowing in her veins full of the passion that she cared for her children with. Her defined brow raised in a look that conveyed it all. It was the ‘young-man-you-better-behave-or-else’ look that could make her young, unruly son quake in his boots. Careful to make sure that the baby cradled in her arms was still sound asleep, Mary only tilted her head before Dean gave in with a huff. 

"Jeez, fine, I’ll go." 

Quickly, he regained his sunny composure, smooched the small baby to on the forehead, and chucked his plastic toy airplane across the room onto his mother’s smooth, granite counter (a loud accompanying ‘nyooooooom’ was absolutely  _ vital  _ for this procedure).  “Bye, Sammy!” Dean called over his shoulder as he tumbled outside the door, grabbing the meticulously arranged basket of cookies. He hurried out the door, gangly legs already tripping him even at the young age of eight years old. The suntanned boy only made it to about halfway down the hot July street before he could get a good view of what- or rather,  _ who  _ was coming outside.

A small boy was struggling under the weight of several cardboard boxes. His messy, almost jet black hair was tousled, artfully framing porcelain skin. Apart from lips pulled into an almost frown, the boy’s expression was the epitome of neutral- unreadable. Dean watched as he took meticulous steps down the unused flight of stairs. He suddenly remembered himself and toted the cookies across the street, calling out "hey there, you!"

The boy turned around, seeming to almost drop the boxes before fumbling with them; he finally set them down and scratched his neck with his now free hand, blushing tomato red. Dean giggled and stuck out his own hand. "I'm Dean, your neighbor from down the street."

A mumbled reply came from the boy, who refused to make any sort of eye contact. Dean frowned and said concernedly,“sorry, I didn’t catch that.” A kind smile rested on his lips.

“Castiel,” a heavily accented voice called out. “Castiel, I need help with- oh, hello there! Are you our new neighbor?” A kind looking woman with a box under her arm smiled down at Dean, who gave his most innocent grin in return. 

"Hi, I’m Dean Winchester, but you can call me Dean. Or Dean Aidan Winchester, but I guess my mom only ever calls me that when she’s mad, so I hope you never have to. Anyway, mom made some cookies for you… welcome to the neighborhood!" Dean rushed out with a boyish, naive smile. The woman stuck out a pale, perfectly manicured hand, which the green-eyed boy promptly shook. She smoothed bright red locks of hair from her face, and crouched down to her knees to meet Dean’s excited eyes. "I’m Anna Novak, and nice to meet you, Dean. And this is my Castiel.” Standing and turning to face the jet-haired boy in the grass, Anna smiled at her son. “Honey, why don't you play with Dean? He seems like a nice boy.”

Castiel only turned redder, not looking up from the  _ terribly  _ interesting patch of green grass. Anna shook her head lovingly and left the boys to their own devices. Dean watched until she was out of sight, and then said proudly "I'm eight, how old are you?" When he got a quietly mumbled reply as his only response, he frowned once more. "Come on, you don't have to be shy! Is it Ca… Casti… do you mind if I call you Cas?"

At the nickname, Castiel's head lifted tentatively and he cracked a tiny smile. Something in Dean’s heart fluttered as he saw his new neighbor’s eyes, a tiny sliver of hope dancing in the shy boy’s cobalt irises. “If it is easy for you,” he said in a soft, accented voice. He spoke meticulously, the trademark of a young child who had been working on his English for months altogether. “I am eight years of age- I believe second grade begins for me soon.”

Dean positively beamed, "That wasn't so hard! Me too, I hope we're going to the same school," he encouraged, taking Castiel's hand and tugging it suddenly. "Mrs. Novak, do you mind if Castiel comes over to play? I’m just three doors down, please?” He said with impeccable pronunciation, waggling his eyebrows at an awestruck Cas. At the woman's nod and smile, Dean squeezed the raven-haired boy’s cool hand in his. "C'mon!"

Castiel eventually opened up, losing his shy persona somewhere among the airplane and dinosaur figurines in Dean’s room. And it wasn’t Dean’s fault if somewhere along the way, he had stopped staring at his next target and moved his focus to the already sharpening lines of Cas’s face. He didn’t notice when Castiel’s eyes roamed his face with the same curiosity and something else that they were both too young to understand. It was something that was embedded in the soft gaze exchanged by both boys, and it was something in the quick aversion of those wide eyes as soon as the other looked up.

The boys played for hours until Castiel's mom called him down. "Five minutes, please!" the two whined simultaneously, then looked at each other and grinned, Cas’s voice and smile a whisper on his perfectly passive person. Dean took Cas’s hand and, fumbling on his own feet, led him downstairs. "Can I at least walk with Cas to his house? It's his first time, and he is younger than me so I don't want him to get lost..." he said out of mature concern to his mother. 

"Fine, but don't be too late," Mary said with a smile. She shook her head, smiling quietly. “Be safe,” she murmured behind the boys, checking outside to make sure nobody was coming outside.

Dean grinned and ushered Cas out, watching as the shorter boy slid out silently with a soft smile on his face. Dean was behind him, suddenly spying something from the corner of his eye and grabbing it with his free hand. He gently pocketed his findings, making sure the pocket of his well-worn and soft jeans did not damage anything. As the two walked, they counted the two pink houses, four yellow houses, and their own two blue homes along the way. 

Delacoeur Street was renowned for two things- Mary Winchester’s famous cookies and the wild lilacs that grew by the bushel, bushes harboring clusters of beautifully tiny flowers. They grew everywhere (the lilacs, not the cookies, but both seemed to sprout up in the most convenient places in times of need).  Dean had always loved the lilacs, painting his room the same way. His father didn’t approve, always making sure Dean knew exactly what a lilac covered room entailed, but it had made Dean happy. Just like Cas.

Dean stopped his friend before he could enter the gate christened with lilac petals all over. He smiled slightly before gently pressing eight pristine lilacs into Castiel's cool palm, squeezing his hand lightly before letting go. The two boys stared at each other for a moment before Dean let out a laugh and pulled a surprised Cas into a hug.

"Welcome home, Cas."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here, we have growing up and a little into castiel's past.

The two aged, as children tend to do. Young Dean Aidan Winchester morphed gracefully into Dean, all tan skin and forest green eyes. He went from lanky and limber to strong, broad muscles. In the span of eight years he became Mister Captain-of-the-Football-Team, Mister Most-Likely-To-Succeed. Dean’s amiable, childish aura transformed into the cocky self confidence that drew everyone- teachers, students,  _ girls _ \- to him like they were moths and he was a flame.

But Dean wasn’t Dean without Cas.

Cas had grown just as his best friend had, sharp cheekbones and iridescent cerulean eyes hidden by thick glasses, secretly contrasting strikingly pure porcelain skin and inky hair. He was baggy sweaters and starched collars, khakis and quiet brilliance. The only issue was that Dean had seemed to notice something. That something was that nobody had seemed to notice Cas’s beauty when it was obscured by daily bright red spray paint spelling out the word “QUEER” in hateful, jagged letters across his locker. The word conducted an orchestra of utterances that joined in coarse harmony to form the daily taunts that assaulted Cas at every turn.

Tenth grade was hardly the easiest of years for the two, but they had managed to stay a unit for eight long years. Dean and Cas simply  _ leaned  _ on each other, a symbiotic relationship, the connection that most teen fiction friendships aspired to be. While everyone saw Dean as Mr. Incredible himself, smart and funny and amazing, they didn’t see Cas, and they sure as hell didn’t see the artfully hidden realness of the two’s past. Cas had been Dean’s crutch, easing him through the pain of his father’s drinking, drugs, abuse, and ultimate departure.

John Winchester had left him and his mother on the verge of eviction when he had been young Dean at the tender age of 9. His mother, once so strong, whose withering stare could tame a lion, had withered herself into a shell of who she once was. Dean had had to hold her up, becoming the man of the house before he could understand what the stuff in dad’s cabinet was and why his mother cried so much whenever she was in her room. After he left, she didn’t get out of bed for a week. Stranded and alone, Dean had turned to his Cas for help, receiving all the love he could never receive from a family. Anna had driven him to school, coming straight home and consoling her own best friend.

She had been there once herself.

America had been a safe haven for Cas and Anna. Her own husband had kept them on the run from the police for eight years. He had trained Cas in the art of theft… and of hiding little bags of powdered death in his coat jacket to give to teachers who would in turn, give him rewards that he did not ask for. He had taken them, cried at home as he tried to wash away the filth of his life and cried harder as his raw, soap scrubbed soul stayed dirty. Anna had watched silently as her son gradually stopped talking, stopped eating, waiting for his next delivery and walking on with an intact body and a broken mind. He was numb, her little boy was a shell and the tears would never be enough to reach an absent father- her prayers were never answered. Cas’s screams, those were never too loud to be heard by the guardian angel whom Cas thought of to ease the torture of his life. Neither were Cas’s silent sobs in the night, silent eyes begging, silent everything as the world had wrenched his heart from his chest and mutilated it, none of it was heard. 

Pure helplessness was something nobody can forget. Anna knew that her son seemed “fine” on the outside, but the lashes of time had left a mark that could never be healed. He was broken, forced to patch himself up and live like nothing was bothering him. Anna had watched as her own son had clumsily found a way to pretend he wasn’t broken, trying so hard not to step on any cracks. When he failed and people found out his true self, it only broke him further. They didn’t know; They, with a capital T, They never understood that Their interventions were not a gift but a curse from Hell itself. A reminder of how broken that young boy truly was. A constant thorn in his side, each prick reminding him that he would never be like the others.

Her own son had been through what Dean had been through, her own heart had felt what Mary had been feeling, and she knew that young Dean would never look at the world in the same way as other children.

But she also knew that her Castiel had been there to sweep up the ashes; he had kept him safe, kept him alive.


	3. Chapter 3

It was no surprise to Dean Winchester that, over the years, he had fallen in love with his best friend.

Dean despised this side of himself, locked it up in a cage with the memories of broken glass and slaps; memories that went side by side with those of Cas tending to his wounds, making sure he was alright. He pushed it away to the farthest corner, stuffed it in a chest, threw away the key, and forgot about it- or at least tried. He couldn’t be gay… he liked girls, he  _ definitely  _ liked girls. The incident with Lisa Braeden at the last football game definitely attested to that. But for Dean,the incident with Lisa Braeden wasn’t marked by the fact that she had marched up to him and kissed him on the lips while everyone watched, proceeding to ask him if he would like to go to the school dance. No, the Lisa Braeden debacle of 2007 was marked by so much more.

The incident was marked by the fact that Cas had seen. He had been running up to Dean, faltering when he saw his best friend pushed up against the lockers. Dean wished he had seen hurt in Cas’s eyes, but instead, all he had seen was a thumbs up and waggled eyebrows, the skinny, sweater-clad boy winking with those beautiful cobalt eyes. He remembered the distant shouts of the football team, the color draining out of Cas’s now terrified face as his hand subconsciously brushed against a hidden bruise on his ribs- one courtesy of the linebacker, Adam. Dean knew it had probably just been wishful thinking when he spied some bunches of lilacs tied together (he had counted exactly seven, his heart sinking as he failed to notice the eighth one on the floor behind him)  in the trash before he left the locker room, Cas’s frantic footsteps still echoing in his head.k

“-ean? Dean,  _ hey!” _ Dean’s head snapped up at a slap to his back. Adam slid into the seat next to him, plucking his chocolate pudding off his tray and stabbing it open with a fork. “We’ve got some, uh,  _ stuff  _ to take care of, and we need your ok. It’s regarding your boy toy, Cas.”

Dean resisted the urge to punch the smirk right off of Adam’s smug face, instead opting to chuckle weakly. “Hey, lay off of him. Cas’s a good guy, okay? He’s just smart and has an accent, lay off of him.” 

“That’s because you haven’t seen him checking out your butt in the locker rooms when he comes to pick you up, mate,” Adam’s right hand man, Crowley, plopped his tray of unappetizing mush across from Dean’s own, laughing at his own crude remark. “He totally has it bad for you, so you stay away from him, yeah? Queer-do’s like him think they can just prance around and throw rainbow glitter like they own the place,” Crowley’s cockney accent, born and bred in the East End of England, did nothing to soften the awfulness of his words. He and Adam chuckled à la neanderthal before digging in simultaneously to what was either hamburger or horse meat.

Dean smirked. “Cas’s been my friend longer than you’ve been ex-Brit, idiot,” to which Crowley clutched his chest and dramatically cried in a noise similar to caterwaul, shouting, “me ‘eart, oh, me bloody, aching ‘eart… God save the Queen!” Adam rolled his eyes and pushed Crowley backwards, knocking the wailing boy out of his seat. The whole table laughed as Crowley popped up and took a bow to his audience of peers, turning back to Dean. But the sandy-haired boy hadn’t been paying attention, instead focused on the person who had just tiptoed in. Cas brushed his ink-black hair out of his face, dodging a spitball and keeping his head down as he clutched his notebook.

Adam had asked him something, and without thinking he said “yeah, sure man, whatever.” He got up and walked to Cas, ignoring Adam and Crowley’s “aww, yes!” of joy, and slid a hand around his friend’s shoulder. “Hey man, what’s up?”

Cas jumped about a foot in the air and dropped his notebook before catching his breath. “J-Dean, hello, you startled me,” he said in his quiet but still gravelly, accented voice. Hailing straight from Poland, Cas’s Polish lilt had never really gone away. He opted to stay quiet in class, silently brilliant. Dean grinned as he dropped his arm- both boys internally protested a little at the loss of contact- and picked up his friend’s textbook.

Cas straightened his collar and tugged on the too-large sleeves of his sweater, taking his book. As their hands brushed, Cas’s heart fluttered as he shot Dean a shy smile. He could have sworn his friend’s eyes widened slightly before he received a lopsided grin in return. They walked outside together, lunch trays in their hands.

“That catch you made was so cool last night,” Cas offered with a nudge. Immediately, Dean’s eyes lit up.

“Oh my God, Cas, you have no idea… it was so cool, did you see the way Adam snapped it at me?” Dean rambled amicably as Cas unwrapped his sandwich and sat on a low branch of the tree where they always ate. The tree had been their home ever since Cas had found Dean crying with a red mark across his face. It had been their secret meeting place when one of them needed the other. But they called the tree their sanctuary when really, their saving grace was just each other.

The large maple tree was disfigured, branches sagging low to the ground and creating two perfect nooks across from each other. Dean and Cas had stashed blankets and pillows in a blue box residing in a large, empty hollow. The air whipped above them, the two boys protected by a wall of leaves. On the other side, hidden from the school and the world, a thick branch had been cut and carved by a surprisingly fit Cas- actually a fifth degree black belt and talented woodworker. It had been turned into a roughly carved seat where the two of them could sit together, where they had cried on the other’s shoulders multiple times, listened to music together. Their initials were embedded into the seat of the chair, eight stars surrounding them, and everyone knew it was their tree. It was just off school campus that they wouldn’t get in trouble, but far away that it could be purely theirs. Sometimes, Dean sat and counted his favorite parts of the tree. Three perfect branches, two intertwined to resemble a heart; four little stars carved into the wood by a swiss knife and two unsteady hands; a little hole in between two roots where Cas would fold paper stars and place them neatly inside a box.

Maple leaves twisted and turned in the air as they fluttered to the ground, mulch rustling as wind swept the ground. Cas watched Dean’s smile, the dimples in his cheeks, the spattering of freckles hanging like constellations underneath beautiful, green eyes. “I mean it’s just sophomore year but like, I think something’s gonna happen you know? That scout from Kansas State, he looked pretty interested. Said I’ve got raw talent,” Dean boasted proudly.

Cas laughed. “Yeah, football is the only thing I’ve heard about from you since I came here. That, airplanes… and lilacs,” he added the last part with a smirk, fiddling with another paper star before writing something on the inside and chucking it into the notch. Dean shoved him lightly. 

“Not cool, that was the color the room was!” he complained, blushing. He knew that wasn’t what Cas was talking about, but he didn’t want to bring it up. “And besides all you ever talk about is your damn violin. That’s all I hear when I come over, Anna talking over Beethoven or that shit.”

“It’s not some shit, Dean Aidan Winchester, it’s art. Unlike you neanderthals running around, brandishing illegally deflated, dried cow skin, my violin is art,” Cas fired back, his voice carrying a little louder now that nobody was around. Dean rolled his eyes in response and took a defeated bite of his sandwich. “Hey, I’ve gotta go,” he said suddenly. “Adam just texted me- he and Crowley need me to do something in the bio lab. Talk to you later,” he said, hugging Cas. His friend’s strong arms wrapped around him briefly, and they both mentally protested as Dean pulled away to go to the bio lab. He looked back as Cas tossed two more stars into the notch. Dean smiled to himself.  _ Everything’s solid, _ he thought.

But everything is never solid. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At this point, I needed words in my novel. So the puppet story came to be, and that creepy beginning followed.

_ “A wooden boy sat perched on the corner of a bench. String hair whipped across a painted, pink face and a brooch glistened on his tiny toy chest. A perfectly poised stature was encased by a perfectly tailored outfit was encased by a perfectly poised aura of sweetness and purity. A fabulously fallacious smile was painted gracefully to his face with a pale pink coat; his rosy cheeks were delicately airbrushed on with the pious purity of the outside world. He emanated the pure naivety of the world, the cerulean of the dew against the early morning sun. He looked like the true definition of happiness. _

_ “And yet, he looked.  _

_ “A fake boy sat rotting on the corner of a bench. Strong whips snapped across a pained, red back and a heart pounded inside his constricted toy chest. A painfully unrefined stance was encased in a painfully shut cry was encased in a painfully intramural aura of bitterness and tainted ruin. A perfectly pure frown was painted over clearly with a solid white gag; his hollow cheeks were deliberately airbrushed over with the pure impiety of an absent father. He internalized the true horror of the world, the dampness of the rain against the cold, fruitless night. He was the true definition of sadness. _

_ “They said, in old times, that there were two enchanted marionettes carved from the same slab of wood, doomed to maneuver in the same way without knowing the face of the other. The splinters of one was the broken ligament of the other, the rest of the first was the refreshment of the second. They learned together how to grow, these two pieces of dead wood. Suffering was their constant; they were tugged at the strings by an absent puppeteer. They were life and death, yin and yang, black and white. _

_ “And so, they were christened Decessus and Vigor. _

_ “When the two dolls learned of each other, they did not realize their connection until one fateful day, a string snapped on the leg of the firstborn, Decessus. Vigor dropped to the ground with a dull thud, its pale face draining of the ichor that ran in its veins. The two then vowed to keep each other happy for as long as they lived. _

_ “They danced on. _

_ “But though Vigor and Decessus were cut from the same branch, they had a life of their own. Decessus kept to the shadows, while Vigor lived for the bemusement and happiness of others. Their dances were both so alive, the puppeteers pulling at the strings. Vigor, who had learned to love his absent master, forced Decessus to practice with him every night. Decessus slowly became tired, pained by the force that Vigor used. _

_ “Defessus knew he was being selfish as one by one, he sawed off all of the strings on his person.  He knew that Vigor would never dance again, and yet he wanted to badly to end the tiredness that flowed through his every polished ligament like poison. And so, the two dropped one final ti-” _

“Grandma, are you finished?” 

“ _ Speak Polish, little one.” _

A groan. “ _ Fine. Now are you done?” _

“ _ Yes, my aniolku, my angel, I’m done.” _

_ “I don’t even get that story. It’s insane.” _

_ “Castiel, never call stories insane. There is always a kernel of truth in each one.” _


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is really short! I'm sorry

Dean jogged up the stairs, definitely  _ not  _ thinking about the way Cas had smiled at lunch. He sauntered into the lab with a goofy grin on his face, quickly dropping the smile as he turned around in the empty room.

“Guys?” Dean called with a concerned voice. He shrugged when nobody showed up, whipping out his phone and sending Crowley a text.

_ To:  Demon Bitch Shit 12:31 _

_ where r u _

_ To:  Demon Bitch Shit 12:32 _

_ dude whats going on _

_ To:  Demon Bitch Shit 12:36 _

_ wtf Crowley where the hell are you guys _

Dean chucked his phone on the table as he rolled his eyes. It  _ had _ only been 5 minutes, but the text had clearly said ”ASAP”. He jumped up on a table by the window and reclined, turning to face the large glass pane. His eyes suddenly shot open.

Cas was painted a fierce shade of red, scrambling on his knees to get away from two red-clad formations that could only be Adam and Crowley. Dean’s eyes widened as Crowley sent a kick flying to his best friend’s ribs, laughing as Cas collapsed on the ground. The green eyed boy grabbed his coat and ran, as fast as he could, to the courtyard. He glided down the staircase, jumping every last five steps to get to  his Cas as fast as he could. 

“Shit shit shit shitshit _ shit,” _ Dean whispered, not caring about teachers who whipped their heads around and glared at him as he flew outside and straight towards Adam; the boy was in the process of giving Cas some very thorough coloring to his already black, blue, and garishly red face. Crowley barely had any time to turn around before Dean shoved him to the ground and yanked Adam off of Cas.

“What the hell!?” he shouted and shoved Adam away, grabbing the assaulters by their shirt collars. “The  _ fuck _ did he ever do to you?”

It was Crowley who spoke first. “That  _ faggot _ is distracting you from what really matters, Dean. You know, the  _ team _ ?” The shorter boy stood as he spat the slur venomously at a trembling Cas, and Dean growled. Getting in between them as fast as he could, he took a threatening step towards Adam and Crowley.

“The two of you are  _ filth _ ,” he whispered dangerously. 

“And your friend here is a fairy fucking fa-”

SLAM.

Dean’s fist connected with Adam’s cheekbone before he could finish his sentence. He punched him again, sending him stumbling backwards. He turned to Crowley, who chuckled weakly and murmured “Dean, old chap, see reason, you can’t  _ not _ see that we’re just looking out for y-” 

The very same fist slammed into Crowley’s gut. “Shut up,” Dean snarled, “and get the  _ fuck  _ out of here before I rip your heads off.” The two bruised boys scrambled to get up and ran, tossing horrified and concerned glances over their shoulders as they made their way to Crowley’s douchey Porsche. 

“Cas,” Dean whispered as he dropped to his knees next to the now unconscious boy. He paused a moment before using his shirt to wipe the blood from his friend’s split lip. Dean counted to three before lifting the surprisingly light boy and bringing him through the back door into the locker room, trying not to cringe at the way Cas’s head lolled and his chest heaved shallowly with each breath. 

The blond boy laid his friend down by the sinks, wetting some paper towels to mop up the blood. He brought the wet papers across the contours of Cas’s face, taking the opportunity to set his nose quickly. Dean cleaned his friend up as best as he could, waiting for Cas to wake up. He perched himself on a windowsill, looking out to the blue fall skies ahead. 


	6. Chapter 6

“It’s okay.”

Cas’s quiet voice trembled across the empty locker room, stinging Dean. He felt tendrils of anger, starting low in his stomach and pouring out of his mouth.

The battered boy stirred and sat up, wearily holding onto his head. He slipped off of the sink, wincing and clutching at his ribs before hobbling across towards Dean.

“It’s o-” an incredulous huff. “Hell, no it’s not, Cas! You don’t deserve to be hit like that. Those neanderthals can’t just do th-”

And then there were lips.

Lips soft against his, lips that tasted like petrichor and lilacs and  _ home, _ lips that melded against his like they were parts that had been made for each other. Cas moved into his space, head tilting up slightly so he could reach Dean, large sweater almost slipping off of his shoulder as he perched on his tiptoes. Green eyes were wide as he took in what was happening; he vaguely registered a hand cradling his jaw like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. The green eyes began to flutter shut and he felt himself relax, but out of the corner of his eye he spotted  _ him _ .

Gabriel, the new freshman runningback, was watching with nothing but a raised eyebrow. Dean saw as the boy’s hand moved to his pocket, pulling out a camera. His heart stopped and he felt his hands start to shake as he realized what he needed to do.

He let out an indignant shout, shoving Cas off of him, away from him, and wiping his mouth aggressively. The lights were suddenly too bright, every sensation multiplied tenfold. Cas’s eyes were wide in fear, pupils almost obscuring the cobalt irises- a perfectly unwelcome eclipse of the twin suns in his eyes. 

“Dean-” he began, choking as tears flooded his eyes. Cas stepped forward hesitantly.

Dean slapped him- hard. Cas dropped to his knees with a thud, his face blank and looking squeamish as his hand disbelievingly moved to his cheek. Cas started to tremble, whispering “Dean, don’t… I’m sorry, please, please d-”

“What the hell is  _ wrong  _ with you, you FAG?” he shouted. Suddenly, without thinking, he moved forward to throw a kick to Cas’s gut. Cas let out a whimper of pain and fell to sit on his knees, bending over and shaking. Dean winced internally, but remembered what he had to do. He was the quarterback, for God’s sakes, he couldn’t throw everything away for Cas. “Why the  _ fuck would you do that?  _ I’m not some… some  _ faggot _ like you!” Dean lifted Cas roughly by the collar before punching him again and letting him fall to the ground.

Footsteps echoed, closer and closer in the hallway as the rest of the football team rounded the corner. “What the hell is going on?” Adam said with childlike excitement as he took in Cas’s again bloody face. Dean looked down at Cas, terrified and alone, cheek red and nose gushing blood, and a flash of concern passed through his emerald eyes before they morphed into ugly jewels that bedazzled a perfect sneer. 

“This fag tried to kiss me,” he growled and turned around to his friends. “But don’t worry, I took the liberty of  _ telling  _ him exactly how worthless and disgusting he is.”

Adam smirked. “About time, I was just about considering the idea that maybe he was  _ your _ boy toy, Winchester. And all this time, he was just pining like the queer he is.” Dean’s initial reaction was to clench his fists, but the scent of lilacs hit his nose and he forced himself to relax. A tiny voice spoke up in his mind, sounding eerily like the crimson-stained boy on the floor behind him. “You’re no better than them,” it said matter-of-factly, and Dean agreed pathetically in his head. He looked at Gabriel, who nodded once and smirked; Dean relaxed then, he was safe, his reputation was safe. 

“You guys go ahead,” he found himself saying. “I’ll get him out of here so nobody finds him.” They grinned, and a couple of the guys hi-fived Dean, who tried not to look so squeamish, and filed out excitedly.

Dean watched as the last of the boys left before turning to face Cas, who visibly flinched under his- no, not his anymore- under  _ Dean’s  _ gaze. Dean felt his stomach drop, and his legs moved of their own accord, running to Cas.

“Please don’t hurt me,” Cas whispered, absolutely terrified. Dean’s eyes widened as he realized what he had done. It was no secret to him that Cas’s father had abused him daily before he had left, the large sweaters and outfits that he wore hiding lashes and scars that had left wounds deeper than they seemed. He reached out a hand, tentatively, but withdrew at Cas’s terrified stare directed no higher than his own shoes.

“Hey,” he whispered with such softness that Cas’s eyes snapped up; the rest of him was visibly still. “Hey, Cas, look at me.” He moved closer, wrapping his arms around the boy. “I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over again. “I’m sorry,” a hand smoothing through his hair. “I didn’t mean to,” lips brushing over his forehead. “I’m sorry, Castiel.” The same lips brushing against eyelids, then the tip of a pointed nose, sharp cheekbones, soft, yielding lips. Dean cradled Cas in his arms, holding him like he should have ten minutes ago, like he should have been doing his whole life.

Cas suddenly pulled back, and before Dean could ask what he was doing, he was being shoved away. Castiel stood up, tears brimming in his eyes, fingers ghosting across his lips. “You think I’ll just forgive you like that?” he said with a quavering, dangerously quiet voice. “You think that I’ll forgive you ever again? I  _ hate  _ you,” he said, voice increasing in volume. “I hate you and I wish…  _ I wish you’d just die!”  _ Cas sobbed. “I’ve loved you for eight years,  _ eight whole years, Dean, _ ” Dean sucked in a breath as the force of those words slapped him across the face.  _ Love.  _ Cas had  _ loved _ him, the past tense rearing its ugly head and trampling Dean where he stood . “And you’re just using me so I’ll keep following you around? That’s sick, that’s  _ pathetic, _ ” he spit. “And I’m pathetic for loving you,” he whispered to himself. Cas wiped the tears off of his face but left the blood- a crimson blot on pure porcelain- and grabbed his books, running out of the room.

Eight lilac petals fluttered to the ground, tracing Cas’s path. 


	7. Chapter 7

Time passed.


	8. Chapter 8

Eight.

That’s how many seconds Dean had waited to pick up the phone call. How many sobs he had heard before Castiel Novak’s mother had mustered the voice and courage to tell him. How many minutes he had taken to absorb the information, realize what it meant.

How many years Cas had been his friend before he had died. 

Dean dropped to his knees, so aching but so cold, and he felt the nonexistent tears fall from his dry eyes. Cas had committed suicide, his mother had told him among sobs and shouts from the emergency room. And committed was the right word- Dean knew this was one commitment his friend could not have backed out of. He felt cold waves of sorrow overwhelm him, frozen salt and tears and pain and  _ no. _ Cas couldn’t be dead.

Dean felt his body sink to the ground; with every second he realized something new. 

_ Cas is dead. _

_ Cas committed suicide.  _

_ Cas swallowed a bottle of pills in his bedroom, washing them down with his last drink _

_ Cas had waited a meager eight days after their first, and now only kiss.  _

_ Cas would never make paper stars again, never laugh at his jokes again, never be there again. _

_ Cas was the only person worth loving on this planet. _

_ Cas was not okay.  _

_ Cas was. _

Dean felt his head spin as he stumbled out of his doorway, dropping the phone and not caring about the crash it made on the floor as it splintered. He felt his heart being ripped out of his chest, felt the cold where Cas’s arms had so many times made their way around him.

And Dean ran.

His thoughts were broken, his eyes not seeing, his heart beating yet as dead as his friend’s; the once-boy who lay somewhere on a hospital bed where a twisted smile of contentment kissed his lips. He tripped over something and planted his body onto the sidewalk, not getting up and staring at the ground, panting harshly with breaths that he didn’t deserve. From the corner of his eyes, tears not there to blur his vision, he spotted the lilac that had slipped him. Dean slowly, painfully got up and looked at the offending plant.

He marveled in sorrow as eight tiny flowers lay upright, the only ones that weren’t crushed by his foot. Alien tears slipped down to erode away the pure purple, saline striking its way into the concrete but never marring the intricacy of the lilacs. Dean sobbed, fingers coming up to touch his lips as Cas once had, hands wrapping around himself like Cas never would again.

Eight tears formed a perfect heart on the sidewalk. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ years later ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Dean sobbed, tears watering the tree as he opened star after star after star. Strips of paper fluttered pathetically to the ground as he unraveled the hidden pieces of Cas’s heart. He gave one last glance at the tree, shutting his eyes as he pulled out a Swiss knife and walked to the seat where they both sat.

A heart had been carved around their initials. Dean let out a heartbreaking whisper of “Cas,” and slashed through it. He sobbed as the knife made its home at the edge of Cas’s first initial, the corner of the heart, the fraying, ripped edge of his composure. 

And Dean lifted the flask to his lips, the scent of lilacs wafting under his nose before the poison took him home.


End file.
